Before You Break

by Kyla Stone

  Before You Break

  Kyla Stone

  Paper Moon Press

  Contents

  Before You Break

  Books by Kyla Stone

  1. Lux

  2. Lena

  3. Lux

  4. Lena

  5. Lux

  6. Lena

  7. Lux

  8. Lux

  9. Lena

  10. Lux

  11. Lena

  12. Lux

  13. Lena

  14. Lux

  15. Lena

  16. Lena

  17. Lux

  18. Lux

  19. Lux

  20. Lena

  21. Lux

  22. Lena

  23. Lena

  24. Lena

  25. Lux

  26. Lena

  27. Lux

  28. Lena

  29. Lena

  30. Lux

  31. Lena

  32. Lux

  33. Lena

  34. Lux

  35. Lena

  36. Lux

  37. Lena

  38. Lux

  39. Lena

  40. Lena

  41. Lena

  42. Lux

  43. Lena

  44. Lux

  45. Lux

  46. Lena

  47. Lux

  48. Lux

  49. Lena

  50. Lux

  51. Lena

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Beneath The Skin Preview

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Before You Break

  By Kyla Stone

  Paper Moon Press

  Atlanta, GA

  Copyright © 2017 by Kyla Stone

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblances to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Cover design by Clarissa Yeo

  First Printing February, 2017

  Paper Moon Press

  Atlanta, Georgia

  ISBN: 978-1-945410-04-8

  Created with Vellum

  Books by Kyla Stone

  Beneath The Skin

  Before You Break

  Real Solutions for Adult Acne

  The Good Sister: A Novelette

  A Sea of Shattered Glass

  To those whose battle lies within.

  Your scars may not be visible,

  But you are still a warrior.

  Never give up.

  “There was a star

  riding through the clouds one night,

  and I said to the star,

  ‘Consume me.’”

  -Virginia Woolf

  1

  Lux

  My name means “light” in Latin. My mother gave me my name. Dad wanted something more traditional, like Laura or Taylor. But my mom got her way, as usual.

  My mother loved the stars. She was obsessed with them, obsessed with the ebb and pull of the sun, the planets, the galaxies. She always said the placement of the stars and planets at the moment of our birth defined our destiny.

  Sometimes I believed her. She could make you believe anything. She had that power. She could wrap you up in her warmth and send you spinning into a universe bright and sparkling.

  She was the sun I orbited around. We all did, like moons reflecting her dazzling light. Sometimes, she seemed close enough to touch. But no matter how hard I tried, I could never quite reach her.

  But she’s dead now. Gone. An exploded star. A black hole. If you get too close to its edge, it sucks you in, its terrible gravity engulfing everything. Even light.

  Mom deserted us. Then Lena left. Now Dad’s in the hospital. There’s only me. Alone. Alone with my frantic, scrabbling thoughts. Alone with a darkness devoid of stars pressed against the backs of my eyelids.

  We all have our secrets. Mom did. So does Dad. Probably even perfect, responsible Lena. I know I do. Secrets so awful I can’t speak them aloud, can’t even think them.

  I did a bad thing. A terrible thing.

  Dad would say the truth will set you free. But he’s wrong.

  Some truths are dark and dangerous. And some sins can’t ever be forgiven.

  I would know.

  2

  Lena

  It’s hard to breathe, like all the oxygen has suddenly been sucked out of the air. Things are tilting, swirling in and out of focus.

  I stand in front of room 315, my suitcase pressing against my leg.

  Everything seems far away—the hum of machines, the murmur of nurses’ voices, the buzz of the florescent lighting, that sharp antiseptic smell.

  The pain behind my ribs is a dark, pulsing wound. But I won’t lose it. Not here. Not today. I can’t. I’ve known this was coming for years, known it like how you can sense a storm by the electric charge singeing the air.

  One breath in, one breath out. Stay. In. Control. Grief swells up inside me, and I shove it down. I have to.

  Only a few hours ago, I was bent over trays of fixer and developer in the Art Institute of Florida’s darkroom, working intently on a project for Advanced Portraiture II.

  The nurse’s voice on the phone had been tinny and distant, barely human. I’m sorry to inform you . . .

  One frantic plane ride and a taxi later, I’m back in Michigan, facing the door to my father’s hospital room, too terrified to enter.

  My legs are stiff and heavy, my mind thick with fog. I stare down at the phone in my hand like it’s an alien thing. I’ve messaged and called my younger sister Lux two dozen times today. She hasn’t bothered to respond.

  Where is she? She should be here. I shouldn’t have to do this by myself.

  But here I am. Alone.

  My mouth is dry, my pulse a roar in my ears. I take a breath and enter the room before I can think about what I’m about to see, what I am or am not prepared for, what I’ll feel.

  What I feel is a sickening vertigo, my stomach wrenching up into my chest. “Oh, Dad.”

  My father lies in a too-small bed, the papery blue hospital blanket barely covering his immense body. Tubes run through his nose. An IV connects him to the humming machines crowding around the bed.

  Everything is a glaring, alarming white: the shocking pallor of his skin, the walls, the floor, the papery curtain pulled between my father and the patient on the other side of the room.

  He opens his eyes and attempts a smile. The structure of his face has crumbled before the onslaught of weight and the violence of the heart attack. The skin around his eyes is loose and puffy, folded inward half over his eyelids. His lips are a cracked grayish blue, and the right side of his mouth sags.

  He tries to raise his head, but the strain is too much.

  “Just rest,” I murmur. I glance at a blue plastic chair in the corner, but I can’t sit down. My spine is a rod of steel—if anything bends or gives way even slightly, my bones will shatter.

  “Are you comfortable? Do you need medicine? More pillows? Are you cold?” I need a chore, a task, something to do, some way to help, to try and fix this, the unfixable.

  “I’m fine.” His baritone voice, normally rich and deep like an opera singer, is gruff, raw. “Just . . . tired. I’m gl
ad you’re home, Gingersnap.”

  My heart clenches at the familiar nickname. I clear my throat. “What did the doctors say?”

  “Just another attack.” Dad wheezes, grimacing. “This one a bit worse than the others.”

  I avert my gaze from the blinking machines, the zigzag pattern of his heart rate. Dad has suffered three heart attacks in the last six years. Each time, the doctors said he wouldn’t survive the next one. Each time, he promised to do better. “I’m glad . . . I’m glad you’re still here.”

  “Me too.”

  The silence stretches between us, nearly unbearable. “Dad, where’s Lux?”

  “She’s around.”

  “Is she at home?”

  “I—I don’t know. I’m sure she’s fine.”

  “She won’t answer my calls.”

  Dad coughs and closes his eyes. He doesn’t answer. This is his thing, ignoring everything he doesn’t like, as if pretending something away could make it actually disappear.

  Frustration flares in my chest. But this isn’t the right time to talk. He’s too exhausted, too sick. A wave of dizziness washes over me. I can’t stay here a moment longer. “I’m going to find a nurse, okay?”

  I flee the room as quickly as I can without running, acid rising in my throat.

  There were no hospital visits eight years ago when my mother died. There was only the silent house. Then the funeral, the coffin and the gravestone, the soft weeping above the birds chirping, the breeze rustling the trees.

  After the funeral came the visitors. Family and friends invaded the house, bringing their hunched shoulders and covered casseroles, their whispered apologies and awkward, pitying attempts at conversation.

  I was only twelve, but I played the role of hostess perfectly, smiling and taking their dishes, tin-foiled turkey, meatballs in a Crock-pot, plates of muffins and croissants. I hung up jackets and sweaters, handed out tissues, made sure everyone had enough potato salad. All the while, the palpable grief in the house was so thick and heavy, I could barely walk through it, could hardly breathe.

  I remember how Dad wept in great, gasping sobs. I’d never seen him cry before. Ten-year-old Lux sat in the hallway, knees pulled up beneath her chin, eyes glazed. I can see her so clearly, scrunched up in her pink silk dress with the tiny daisies all over it, the one Mom had loved.

  Lux had stared at the wall as if transfixed. She didn’t cry, speak, or respond to anyone. After a while, people just stepped over her in their suits and dark dresses on their way to the bathroom as if she weren’t even there.

  I clench my jaw and shake the memory out of my head. There’s no use thinking about it now. I check my phone for the hundredth time. Still nothing from Lux.

  I have to keep moving, stay busy. If I don’t, I’ll fall apart right here on the hospital floor, and I’ll never be able to pick up the pieces. I can’t fall apart. Instead, I find the nurse’s station and wait until an older woman in a white lab coat introduces herself as Dr. Carter.

  I meet the doctor’s gaze. “Is my father dying?”

  Dr. Carter smooths back her blond hair threaded with silver. “His previous two coronary artery bypasses were unsuccessful. The grafts have failed. He has severe systolic failure, with rapid onset symptoms of diastolic dysfunction as well. Your father has end stage congestive heart failure.”

  “What do we do next? Another surgery?”

  “Due to repeated stents, significant scarring of the heart muscle is present. Another bypass would only fail. At this point, no further therapeutic options are available. I’m sorry.”

  There’s a dull ringing in my ears. I barely hear her words, let alone comprehend them. “How long?”

  The doctor touches my arm. “It is difficult to say for certain, but his time should be measured in weeks, Miss McKenna.”

  I close my eyes, a fresh wave of dizziness washing over me. No matter how prepared you think you are—you aren’t. “What about a heart transplant?”

  “I’m sorry, but your father is not a candidate for a heart transplant.”

  I focus on the doctor’s face. Her skin is pale, almost translucent. I’d photograph her face in color, in a cool, natural light to capture the delicate netting of blue veins like scaffolding propping up her features, threading skin to bone.

  The words are like stones in my throat. “What do you mean?”

  “A donor organ would not sufficiently prolong his life. It isn’t simply his heart. He has additional comorbidities, including morbid obesity, hypertension, and severe kidney damage. Nearly every organ in his body is failing.”

  I try to swallow, the hitch in my throat as large as a fist.

  “Again, I am truly sorry. I’ve spoken with your father. He expressed a desire to go home. He’s eligible for hospice care through Medicaid.”

  The shock rolls over me, unabsorbed. That will come later. Now there is planning, discussing, action. Something for me to do. “Is it something—I mean, could a family member take care of him?”

  “If someone could be with him and take care of daily tasks. Certainly.”

  I try not to imagine the remaining weeks of spring semester slipping away. I can’t miss the Central Florida Metropolitan Museum of Art photography competition. I’ve made it to the semi-finalist round. Winning could make my career, change my life. Photography is everything to me.

  No, not quite everything. I can’t bear the thought of strangers caring for my father on his deathbed. He’s my dad. This is my responsibility. I close my eyes, pushing out thoughts of school, photography, the dream I’ve worked so hard to build. “I’ll do it.”

  “I would like to discuss some things with you. You should know what to expect . . .” Dr. Carter continues talking, but I hear little of what she says.

  My father is dying. My sister seems to have disappeared. And the painful, brutal memories of my dead mother swirl dangerously close to the surface.

  But what I dread most at this moment is going back to that house. The home I haven’t stepped foot inside in over two years, where the dust and darkness settle too quickly, where memories swirl and never really settle at all.

  The house of my childhood, crouching silently, empty but breathing, rattled with tremors, the shivers of guilt, of loneliness, of secrets. Like a living thing.

  3

  Lux

  I’ve been lying here huddled beneath Eden’s blankets on the floor of her room for three days. It feels like three centuries.

  My hair’s knotted and tangled over my scalp, my mascara and eyeliner smudged over the hollows beneath my eyes. My mouth is thick and gunky, my throat scratchy from crying.

  I clutch the phone, my fingers like claws. Like hands that don’t even belong to me.

  I’ve called the hospital so many times I’ve lost count. I need to make sure he’s okay. I need to know what’s going on. I punch in the number I know by heart. I ask the same questions. Finally, I’m transferred to a nurse who actually talks to me. Your father’s stable. He’ll be discharged tomorrow morning. Your sister is with him.

  My sister. Lena. Back home after all this time. The thought makes me want to scream. But still. Relief floods through me. Dad’s okay. Lena’s taking care of him. Same old, same old. Nobody needs a screw-up like me around, just making things worse.

  I hear the slamming of car doors, footsteps, then the key in the lock. Low voices in the hallway. Eden is back, and she’s brought someone with her. I cover my head with the blanket.

  They walk into the room. Someone nudges my prone form. “Galapagos Tortoises sleep up to sixteen hours a day.” Eden’s voice.

  “Ugh.” I groan. “Go away.”

  “Hello? I live here, remember?”

  “Kill me now,” a second, deeper voice says. Simone. “It stinks like the unwashed masses in here.”

  “The three-toed sloth sleeps twenty hours a day,” Eden says. “He moves so slowly algae grows on his back. You see any algae growth yet, Simone?”

  “Nope. I do see som
e epically hairy legs, though.”

  Someone grabs the blanket and jerks it off me. I blink up at my best friends since fifth grade, Eden Jián Yun and Simone Talebi.

  Eden tucks her straight black hair behind her ears and squints at me in concern. She’s dressed in a gray sweater and loose khakis. She’s full-bodied and curvy, like I am, but she’s always hiding herself, hunching or slouching and wearing baggy, oversized hoodies. She’s kind and loyal as hell, which is why I love her, forever and always.

  “Seriously, you’ve got to get up,” she says. “There’s rice and Kimchi stew in the fridge. My mom made jihnmandu last night. Your favorite.”

  I just moan and close my eyes. “Someone turn the light off.”

  “Don’t make us stage an intervention,” Simone says. She’s half-Iranian, half-Nigerian and full-on amazing. She’s like six feet tall with these thick middle-eastern eyebrows and gorgeous brown skin. Her caramel-colored curls corkscrew around her head like the mane of a lion. She’s fierce like a lion, too.